


I'm (Not) a Light Weight

by we_are_the_story



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bad Flirting, I am not a doctor, I have no idea what I was thinking when I wrote this, M/M, Scott is a Good Friend, Stiles is not a light weight, Stiles likes Bio-Engineering, concussion, facial hair that is more beard than stubble, in like three hours or something, it's concussion, or something, paramedic Derek, slurring of words, there's probably spelling mistakes, these symptoms of concussion were found on google
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 17:18:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7472763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/we_are_the_story/pseuds/we_are_the_story
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow Stiles has three glasses of alcohol, and ends up with a concussion and a hot encounter with a paramedic who’s just as weird as he is. What?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm (Not) a Light Weight

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been trying to write this amnesia fic with Sterek, but I’ve reached that little thing called Writer’s Block and can’t go any further, and this little thing popped into my head without warning. Seriously, I was watching weird videos on YouTube and I just – Boom! – Fic idea. Funny how things work out, isn’t it?
> 
> That said, I hope you people out there, whoever you may be, are having a good day, or night, depending on your time zone, because time zones are a thing. . .apparently. Dammit.

Stiles should be more embarrassed by the fact that he’s meeting who he’s almost certain is his soul mate when he’s slurring and falling over himself in his attempt to reassure Scott that, yes, Stiles is fine, his head just hurts a bit and, yes, he knows Scott is holding four fingers up in front of his face (Two? What do you mean two? There’s four, Scott, you’re holding up _four_ fingers. Can’t you count?) and that, no, Scott, Stiles is not confused, dizzy, or amnesiac he is in fact _fine_ –

Wait? But why is the ground tilted so it’s vertical next to him?

“What’s his name?” The burning hot paramedic asks Scott, his wonderful brows pulled together in what Stiles immediately deems the concentration face. The concentration face of concentration that takes a lot of concentration to pull off. Concentration here, concentration there, concentration here, there and everywhere! And a concentration pool par-tay for everyone!

Stiles giggles hysterically as the paramedic holds his head steady to look at his temple. It does kind of hurt there, Stiles thinks, maybe that’s where his ideas come from. The deep dark recesses of his mind that Stiles has realised, after years and years of failed adventures, are probably not that good, nor healthy to pursue. He almost got killed by a mountain lion in fifth grade because he thought there might be treasure in the woods. There wasn’t.

“His name is Stiles,” Scott tells the lava hot paramedic, his voice breathless. Stiles wanders why Scott’s breathless for a second before being distracted by the man’s beautiful facial hair that’s more beard than stubble. Stiles gazes in awe at what he hopes is a soft grouping of hair on this man’s face. Ha. . . grouping. It’s like the Hair Cluster of Notradame – No, assemblage. No - _accumulation._

“No, gat’hering. . .” Stiles whispers to the fire hot paramedic, his words slurred more than they should be after only three drinks. He swears he’s not such a light weight, it takes at least six to make him forget to talk properly. Please, whatever happens after, let him never remember this moment in time. “I’s a gap – gander – catering of h’rin’sssss.”

The paramedic ignores Stiles broken speech and peers closer to Stiles’ face, looking deep into his eyes, as if searching for his missing soul that lives in Stiles, waiting to be reunited with the other half that is inside the hot paramedic. Maybe the hot paramedic has a piece of himself in Stiles. That would be really nice, having a piece of the paramedic inside him, each piece surrounding the other with warmth and affection until their pieces are locked together in relief.

“I’d li'e f’r youse to be insi'e me,” Stiles smiles dopey, watching with revere as the paramedic’s ears turn red, the skin on his cheeks pinking at the comments Stiles is making without really understanding the consequences of such behaviour. “’at woul’ be coooool, li'e. . .li'e connection or somet'ing,"

“I swear he’s only had three beers,” Scott speaks up suddenly from his spot beside Stiles on the side walk, where some people stare as they stroll past. Probably assuming he’s some drunk ass college boy dismissing his grades as second behind being drunk, getting drunk, and about to get drunk. He’s not. Really. He’s celebrating passing his final exam with an A and graduation top of his class in Bio-engineering. Stiles is really proud of himself, okay, he’s allowed get drunk as a 25-year-old man-child finishing university and finally doing what he has wanted to do for years and years. His other option was a teacher, but that seemed a bit torturous; teaching kids that are probably slightly better than he was at their age.

“His pupils uneven, speech dangerously slurred, dizziness,” the paramedic lists off as he flashes a light into Stiles’ eyes.

“Wazza brigh’ness f’r?” Stiles mumbles, cringing away from the light.

“. . .Aversion to light,” he says. “Stiles? Stiles are you feeling nauseous? Are you going to be sick?”

Stiles starts nodding his head vigorously, but has to swallow back the bile that threatens to leave his stomach so he doesn’t throw up all over the paramedic’s nice face.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” the Hot Paramedic mutters to himself. “I’ve got to take him to the hospital for further treatment, his concussion is pretty bad and I need to glue this cut together. Did you want to ride with him?”

Stiles, in the midst of falling asleep, is shaken awake by a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Stiles,” the voice says. “Stay awake, Stiles. Stay awake.”

“’nly if you pr’mice to l’t me ride youse,” Stiles was meant to say let _Scott ride with them,_ but he still said what was on his mind so it doesn’t really matter either way.

Scott makes a strangled noise, as if Stiles is causing him physical pain, “I’m sorry, he doesn’t normally – say such. . .things when he’s, you know, uninjured. His brain to mouth filter is horrible at best, but concussions make it worse. Trust me, I’ve seen it happen. He once declared his undying love of men when he was fifteen in front of about fifty people because he’d fallen out of a tree. It was both sad and _hysterical._ ” Scott finishes with a soft snort, clearly getting entertainment from every times Stiles has hurt himself.

Stiles protests half-heartedly as he’s being loaded into the ambulance, arguing about consent and the right to choose, but Scott shushes him and pets his chest condescendingly.

“’ll have youse know, Sco’y-boy. . .tha’. . .tha’. . .” Stiles pauses his hand reaching for something he can’t see above him. He lets his hand drop and it lands in Scott’s lap, limp. Scott takes his hand in both of his and squeezes. “I’s forgo’n.”

The paramedic flashes that weird light again and Stiles whines, pushing weakly at the hand that’s holding his head still, before he is encased in a whole lot of absolutely nothing. Seriously, someone turn on the lights.

 

)o()o(

 

He wakes up with his head pounding, like there’s a hammer smashing his right at his temple wanting to simply crash through the solid structure of his skull, but not quite making it simply for the fact that it is so hard. There is also a man with an impressive clump of facial hair leaning over him, eyes seeming to be looking for something and –

Oh God

He’s going to be murdered, isn’t he?

Stiles strikes out with his hands, batting at the figure with hard punches, yelling all the while, kicking with his feet as he fights to get out of the tangle of blankets on his bed. He just ends up messing up the beautiful white of the blankets covering his legs that are already covered in tight black jeans.

“Ohmygoohmygodohmygod,” Stiles panics, flailing away from the figure. “Please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me, I have a semi-interesting like and a lot of people I care about, there are much, much, _much,_ better prey out there than me!” Stiles gasps in a breath. “Please, I’m 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bone and sarcasm is my only defence – Ohmygawd, please don’t hurt me!”

Stiles is holding his hands in front of him, ready to fight off any more attacks from the killer, even though there have been no first attacks and not pain other than the pounding headache that radiates from his left temple, when he notices that a) this bed is not his bed because the blue sheets he has on his bed are in fact white blankets, and b) this room has more people in in than his bedroom ever will.

“I think it’s against my job to harm you, Stiles,” the man says, an amused lit to his voice and Stiles lowers his arms, peeking through the gaps in his fingers.

“Umm. . .” Stiles says eloquently, staring open mouthed at the man with the impressive muscles and blue paramedic uniform. “Who are you? And what are you doing? And where am I? And what happened? Who – Where’s Scott!?”

“Right, here buddy,” Scott’s familiar voice wafts from next to him. He’s lounging in a chair that does not look very comfortable at all and Stiles would feel sorry for him if not for the fact that he has no idea what’s going on.

“Scott!” Stiles startles, “What are _you_ doing here? Did something happen? Is someone hurt? Are you _okay?_ ”

“It was you that was hurt,” the Hot Paramedic inputs. “I glued your head together, but your speech isn’t slurred anymore so I think your concussion has gone down slightly.”

“Concussion? Glued? – my _head?”_ Stiles scrabbled to pat his head down and hisses when his fingers touch his left temple. “Slurring? _What the_ _fuck happened?”_

“Well, we went drinking at one of those gay bars that you constantly drag me to even thought I’m both straight and have a girlfriend, and then you tried dancing with that weird dude with the purple hair that was both overbearing and irritating, but then you needed to go to the toilet and I thought you would be able to go there without any help so I left you to it, but then you didn’t return for a long time and I got worried, but I found you on the floor of the bathroom, those floors are full of germs and pathogens did you know, blood everywhere, and I thought you died, dude, I was freaking the fuck out, so I brought you outside and called 911, which brought Derek to us with his trusty vehicle and good friend of Derek named Boyd who drove the ambulance, which brought us to the hospital because you had really bad concussion and now we’re here.”

“That was a long sentence,” Stiles commented, silently awarding Scott an applause for mimicking what Stiles no doubt sounds like on a regular basis. But - “His name’s Derek? Hot Paramedic is named Derek? You mean I can call him something other than Hot Paramedic in my head? I can now distinguish him and other Hot Paramedics now! How did you get his name, Scott? Did you Facebook stalk him? Google him, perhaps?”

“ _No,_ Stiles, _what the hell?_ I asked him like a _normal_ person,” Scott barks, looking on the verge of gagging. “You should try it some time.”

“What, being _normal?”_ Stiles shivers in disgust. “So if I were to ask him on a date. . ?”

“ _Yes,_ Stiles.”

Stiles whips around to the paramedic and gives him a grin, “Would you like to engage in a thing I like to call Dating Stiles Stilinski: Can You Last?”

“No,” the paramedic – Derek – says and Stiles’ face falls, but Derek’s lips tilt towards the ceiling, his eyes shining with amusement. “But if you give me your number we can engage in something I like to call Texting to Establish Trust Before Engaging in Other Weird but Equally as Wonderful Activities.”

Stiles reaches over and smacked anything he could touch of Scott.

“Dude! Dude – It finally worked!” Stiles crows in triumph, “Being my weird and wonderful self has finally lead me to getting a date with a nice dude with lovely eyes.”

 

)o()o(

 

el fin

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and/or comment if you have the time.


End file.
